


The Sacred Feast of Monsters

by jumpstarts



Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ
Genre: M/M, Original Mythology, Original Universe, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-10-01 18:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20358976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpstarts/pseuds/jumpstarts
Summary: Shim Changmin was a captain of the Knight's Order, whose post-war station at the Groundhaze Fortress kept him far from the troubles brewing in the capital of the Empire. But after being framed for the murder of a visiting general, his only option was to run and try to uncover the truth behind the sinister scheme, all without losing his head in the process. The world he knew was slowly coming undone, as ancient prophecies started to unravel and new schemes threatened the peace that had been hard-fought and won.His journey would lead him down a treacherous path, one that was wrought in death and destruction, and he found himself walking it with a stranger. Whose uncanny ability to attract danger was only slightly more concerning than the attraction simmering between them, making things more complicated as they were pursued by forces beyond their worst nightmares.





	The Sacred Feast of Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to the original fantasy au that had taken 92848333 years to get written. :D i've always been fascinated by world-building and while this is just one of the many universes crammed inside my head, it holds a special place in my heart. if you've read my fairytales/myths retelling fics, they are all set in this universe (with a few tweaks to accommodate the needs of the stories) and let me just say that i'm beyond ecstatic to be able to share this with you. 
> 
> if you have any question about the universe/terms used in this fic, don't hesitate to comment or send a message to my twitter/curiouscat linked below. 
> 
> i hope you'll enjoy it! :D

.

He was one of the knights from the Old Kingdom, wielding the coat of arms synonymous to the reign of the Mad King with unveiled pride and more than a hint of arrogance. There’s nothing modest about his appearance — the towering height, broad shoulders and iron-wrought muscles straining underneath fine silk, the steel grey eyes that foretold experience and absence of mercy. His spear, carved from the bones of a great beast from past tales of grandeur, was his only constant companion. He’d moved to the small, coastal town once he settled his debts to the Empire, preferred solitude than to be dragged into the velvet warfare waged between the Courts and members of the royal family. The transition was easy, as his entire lineage had been erased during the succession of wars that plagued the continent from when he was but a child. He carried it around — the stench of carnage. Of death. The townspeople spoke of him in hushed whispers, spoke to him in subdued voices and he inspired more fear than respect with his presence.

He did not belong in the new age and he knew that better than anyone else.

He should have vanished at the end of the war, crumbled into history with the fall of Rosvok and the rest of the old regime. There would have been bards spinning tales of his bravery and sacrifices, songs to be sung around campfires across the country where they still worshipped the legacy of the Mad King.

But he was here and he was alive. He could think of nothing more humiliating.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having.”

He looked up from his drink, something thick and vile, and the corner of his lips curled in distaste at the owner of the voice. He’s given the impression of an overlarge bat by the black travelling cloak covering the stranger, its tattered hem sweeping the dirt-covered floor of the tavern. He didn’t even bother offering a word of greeting when the stranger turned and occupied the stool next to his, choosing instead to pick up his glass and drain it in one swig. The night was still young and the tavern buzzed with quiet conversations (there’s never trouble when he’s around, after a few unfortunate instances when he first started coming) and he’s contemplating on making an exit when a pale hand grasped his arm.

The shock of the physical contact superseded his first instinct — which was to swing a fist.

“You are Sir Dongha, yes?”

He followed the extension of limb until it’s swallowed by dark fabric, narrowed his eyes at the impudence of such action and finally shrugged off the hand within seconds. The eyes that regarded him through the process gleamed beetle-dark under the protection of the hood and he did not like the way they reminded him of the things from across the borders, things he’d only glimpsed from afar because even he wasn’t foolish enough to tempt the unknown. The noises of the tavern had receded in the background, perhaps sensing something was about to go very, very wrong. He reached for his spear, unhooked it in one fluid motion and the sharp blade rested inches away from the stranger’s neck. He ignored the distressed whimper from the bartender crouching behind the counter.

“Who’s asking?”

“A fan.” The hood lowered and he frowned at the mask staring back at him: bone-white except for the red painted over the shape of a grinning mouth. It bore semblance to the kind of facades preferred by theatre companies over in the capital, but it had been years since he’d seen any. He wouldn’t even know if they’re still in fashion. “You’re a difficult man to find, Sir Dongha.”

“Not difficult enough if you’re here,” he snorted. His arm still prickled where he was touched. “I do not wish to be disturbed. If you value your life, disappear and never return.”

“Ah, but you haven’t heard my proposal.”

“Nothing you offer interests me. Leave.”

“Sir Dongha, I’m certain—”

A growl of annoyance and he abandoned warning altogether, changed his grip and swung the spear in one clean slice. He’s prepared to avoid the arterial spray that would usually be resultant of such move, but there’s none. His spear was lodged halfway through the neck, but the wound gaped, bloodless. For the first time in years, dread and fear and excitement coursed inside his veins and he watched in apprehension as the creature calmly extracted itself from the blade. Only seconds and the wound had closed up, leaving no evidence that it was ever cut open. The bartender had fled his station and the tavern held its breath, trapped in the eye of the storm.

“I do wish we can forfeit violence for once. It’s rather unpleasant to be chopped in half while trying to negotiate business.”

He curled his fingers around the spear, mouth dry and heart pounding in his ribcage. He’d faced terrible creatures throughout his illustrious career, killed most of them with this very same spear, but none had left him with such suffocating sense of malice. Despite the calm, almost jovial voice coming out from behind the mask, he had little doubt that underneath that cloak was a shapeless, hungry thing that shouldn’t be allowed to exist. “What are you?”

“Like I said; a fan.” The mask tilted. The painted mouth seemed to have grown several inches wider, glistening red. He could imagine the mouth cracking open, full of needle-sharp teeth. “Now, are you ready to listen?”

.

Groundhaze was an old fort, instrumental as a defensive retreat for the Empire’s troops during the War of Three Rings and the battles they waged against the Northland savages five years ago. Perched on the hilltops alongside Yelg and Larksmouth, it was never attacked in its entire history. Part of it was due to the extremely long access road that wound up from the nearest town and the walls that seemed to go as far as the eye could see, joining up with the other forts to create a very impressive and effective blockade. It was also a training ground for knight hopefuls, providing the cutthroat elements needed to weed out the weak and the unworthy. Changmin leaned against one of its massive pillars, sipping on a mug of coffee as he watched the courtyard rapidly filling with recruits in varying level of undress, some still in their undergarments. He could count, on one hand, the number of those who looked combat ready.

He supposed he should be grateful that none of them came out with their cocks and balls hanging in the open, which had happened much too often during his tenure there. 

Cries from the local warblers rose like a siren, a ritual welcome to the crack of dawn. The air sat fresh in Changmin’s lungs, dew-slick and invigorating. All around them, the Grey Mountains loomed in the tinted darkness just before sunrise, like a silent guardian. An old friend. His good mood took a left turn when he bit into a piece of sandwich. He chewed a few times, before spitting it out to the side. The rest of the sandwich returned to its brethren and he briefly entertained the thought of feeding them to the dogs, but even he wasn’t that cruel. _Gods_. He would take an arrow for Minho any time of the day, but the younger man needed to stay away from kitchen duty before he poisoned all of them one of these days. The knight in question was already walking through the disorganised ranks, nudging the edge of his practice spear into those who looked like they were about to keel over. Minho was his usual high-spirited self, offensively so. Changmin had yet to find someone as enthusiastic and relentless as Minho, and his competitive streak extended well beyond training and the battles they were sent into. There were times when Changmin had to extract the younger man from situations that would otherwise turn ugly, just because he refused to back down from a challenge. The other captains apparently found it hilarious how Changmin had somehow rounded up an unfortunate amount of oddballs in one single company.

And talking about oddballs—

“Enjoyed your breakfast, Captain?”

Changmin exhaled slowly. Why was he saddled with all these problem children? Did he piss off one of the desk jockeys in charge of assignment papers? Was this some kind of a punishment? He nudged the plate away. “Any other captain would’ve had your neck for that. Attempted murder of a ranking officer and all.”

Kibum came to stand next to Changmin, arms crossed and already clad in his light armour. The touch of insolence in his smirk was a familiar sight. “If only we can militarise Minho’s cooking, we’d be spending this time of the year cruising along Farrowsdown and enjoying the service of their fine ladies.” 

“You can’t afford Farrowsdown’s ladies.” Changmin gulped down the rest of his coffee, hoping it would rinse out the awful taste in his mouth. It helped, by scorching off the top layer of his tongue. “You’re not even interested in ladies, Kibum.”

Kibum shrugged, before heading off to join Minho in hassling the recruits. They had been at Groundhaze long enough to run the drills without his supervision, although putting Minho and Kibum in charge without Jinki as a buffer was just flirting with trouble. The most unproblematic member of the trio had been sent off to report their progress to the Order and would be due back later that evening, no doubt with plenty of stories to tell. Changmin sighed and decided to see if there’s anything actually edible in the kitchen. He looked to the sky; the patch of night was starting to scuff too thin under the circling of stars, morning about to leak steadily along the horizon. The constellations were shifting and he noticed a few stars missing, just north of the heavenly perch occupied by Tav and Avandil, the two brightest stars in the velvet-dark. When his parents were still alive, they made it a game to see who could name the entire celestial pantheon and the exercise stuck to him.

His father had been a scholar in the capital, employed by Freightbane Hall for his expertise in Celestial History. The Hall was an extension of Tal-Dar, one of the Great Universities scattered across the nation, and he spent his morning teaching classes to aspiring archaeologists while his evening was reserved solely for the practical demonstration of heavenly scrying. In what little free time he had, however, Shim Dongsik’s interest laid in the study of ruins, especially temples and artefacts created in the monstrous image of the Old Gods. While others sought to destroy these reminders of a darker time, he believed that they possessed knowledge that would help mankind in the future. Not everyone agreed with him though. On more than one occasion, Changmin had overheard his father complaining about some of his colleagues, who went as far as to brand him a devotee of the Mad King’s legacy. A Resurrectionist. When Changmin was younger, he didn’t understand what that word meant and why his mother would touch the star-shaped pendant upon her breasts when she heard it, as if the gesture would protect her against evil. It was much later that his father sat him down and told him about Taejong, the last monarch whose obsession with calling forth the Old Gods had cost him the kingdom. Changmin learnt about the fall of Rosvok and how hundreds of thousands were killed in the battles waged over its now-barren ground.

“Those people were sacrifices,” his father said, as grim as Changmin had ever seen him. Changmin was twelve then, and he knew parts of these grisly tales, some from his father’s heavier books and others from stories told by the older boys in his school. “The Old Gods would only listen to an offering made in flesh. Centuries ago, when they crawled out of the molten Earth and first spoke in the language of Man, they turned us into monsters. We slaughtered innocents to keep their altars running red with blood. We pillaged and plundered in their Names. In exchange, they granted unimaginable wealth to those who could kill, who would throw their own brothers and sisters, parents, into the fire pits of their temples. Those who shed their humanity lived like kings, while the rest cowered in fear, waiting for the time when they would be carried off to feed the Gods’ appetite. It was a wretched way to live. Until—” his father paused, “—the first Celestials came to us upon the shores of the Tarrakan Sea.”

“That’s Tav!” Changmin exclaimed, recognising the beginning of his favourite part of the story. “And Avandil and Vudwa-Tal! They came because they heard our prayers, all the way from the Beyond!”

“You’ve been paying attention to your lessons.” His father looked pleased, the corners of his eyes crinkling when he smiled. “You’re right, of course. The war our stellar deities waged against the Old Gods lasted decades before they managed to drive the Old Gods back into the Earth, where they belonged. We were almost wiped out and it was a terrible price to pay for peace. But even then, they’re not truly defeated. They’re still lurking underneath us, watching. And waiting.” Changmin shuddered, scooting closer to his father. He was still young enough to not be self-conscious about seeking comfort from his parents and the thought of a formless darkness with long, sharp teeth nipping at his heels was nightmare fuel to his young mind. His father stroked his head, still smiling. “That’s why, Changmin-ah, we should learn everything we can about them. So we do not make the same mistake our ancestors did. Do you understand?”

Changmin remembered nodding, despite wishing that his father would spend less time chasing after the hungry gods and more time with him and his mother. It’s a selfish wish he’d cried over when he came home from school one day to find his parents missing. And that the walls of his father’s office were covered in blood, so much so that it appeared to be one vast field of stars. Long-tailed comets were sprayed across the expanse, dribbling red to the sodden carpet. Patches of the white-painted walls were visible, like bared bones underneath the ripping of flesh. There were no human remains though, just blood from bodies wrung-dry. His father’s papers and books were reduced to a small bonfire in the middle of the room, smoke still rising from the pile of dark-grey ash when his neighbours rushed over after hearing his screams. Nobody could tell him what happened to his parents. The lawmen speculated that it was a robbery gone wrong, even if they couldn’t rationalise how the criminals had spirited the bodies away. Or why. Not that it mattered. Since his parents had no living relatives, Changmin was duly shipped off to the orphanage and the case was buried under other more pressing crimes. He grimaced and shook himself out of that particular memory. Bile rose to the back of his throat, and it had nothing to do with Minho’s sandwiches. His parents were gone and it took years for him to get over it. It was a raw wound he still carried inside his ribcage and picking at it wouldn’t do him any good. He turned away from the missing celestial bodies and pried open the kitchen door. The cook tumbled in as he was raiding the larders and fixed him a plate of eggs and potatoes, before kicking him out of her sacred domain.

Never mind that he was, effectively, the highest-ranked official around.

The recruits were just starting on their run when Changmin rejoined them and it’s only when the sky was smooth and bleached white by sunshine that he finally called for a break.

“Captain Shim Changmin.”

The familiar voice diverted his attention from the motley crew gasping for breath before him, some already on their knees and looked five seconds away from throwing up. A portly man raised a hand from underneath the archway and Changmin went towards him, curious as to why someone from Demolition would come all the way over to Groundhaze without prior notice. Changmin grasped the offered hand and was pulled into a hug, a meaty hand thumping his back a couple times too much. He could almost hear his spine creaking in protest.

Shindong stepped back with a wide grin and jerked his chin towards the assembled recruits. “How’s it going?”

“As well as you can expect,” Changmin said, gesturing for Shindong to follow him to the strategy room, one that would offer them more privacy. He doubted this was a social visit. He caught Minho’s eyes and nodded for him to take over. “These flatfoots are more likely to stab the friend next to them than the enemy in front.”

A low chuckle, as they stepped through the doorway. “This place hasn’t changed at all. The Old Master used to put us through our paces by letting the wolves loose. Nasty creatures with teeth ‘bout the size of your fingers, but the crazy fucker didn’t care if we came back missing chunks s’long as he got his entertainment.” He patted his belly and laughed. “Guess all that exercise’s for nothing now.”

Shindong belonged to their heaviest artillery unit and they remained in the capital when not called upon to wreak havoc on the front lines, presumably to act as walking advertisement to remind people of the Empire’s military might. His Demolition unit played a pivotal part during the Thallath Siege, when the Empire decided to drop hex bombs into the heart of the Northland tribes’ sacred forest to force them to surrender. The bombs wiped out more than half of the tribe members and warped the once-verdant forest beyond recognition, poisoned the ground so thoroughly that nothing else could grow beyond the hideous, twisting skeletons of trees left behind. The military swept everything under the metaphorical rug, packaged the victory in lavish parades and towering monuments. Changmin wasn’t one to question decisions made above his pay grade, explicitly understood that the Empire faced the risk of losing if they were forced to extend the war any longer, but he was loathe to celebrate such a massacre.

He poured them two glasses of the dark-honey liquor he reserved for guests he didn’t actively dislike, and handed one to Shindong. “What brings you here, hyung?”

Shindong headed to the table in the middle of the room and fished out a scroll from his travelling pack, one that Changmin recognised as a classified log. He unfurled it across the surface, the map of the continent neatly criss-crossed by pencilled grid. Changmin could draw all the borders from memory, name all the important cities, temples and ruins. His education had included an extensive half-year of cartography that came in useful when he had to lead in the foreign lands. The painted map shimmered and shifted, colours changing ever so slightly as Shindong ran a finger over them. One of their magicslingers must’ve cast a spell over it and if Changmin wasn’t mistaken, each colour indicated the Empire’s territories and those that belonged to neighbouring nations. Shindong’s finger landed on a patch of land that glowed a faint teal. 

“Company 7’s gone.” Shindong said, grim, as Changmin drew in a sharp breath. That was Siwon’s. “Yeah. They were supposed to be on border patrol, but we lost contact two weeks ago. Scouts came back with spirit pictures and one hell of a horror story. They found bodies in a giant hole in the middle of Derengua, small settlement northeast from the Wall. Local folks and members from nearby tribes, slaughtered like sheep. None of ours though. Just up and vanished.”

Losing an entire company was unheard of, especially after the peace treaty had been signed at the tail-end of the last war. Even those godless Canabastan sand pirates knew better than to attack the Empire’s soldiers. Changmin refilled their glasses, wished he’d stocked harder liquor. Siwon was older by a year, but they graduated Groundhaze together and had kept in contact since. They met up once every few months for a drink and the last time Changmin saw him, the other man confided that he was thinking of getting married. “Did the scouts found out what happened?”

“A dark ritual, they said. Old World stuff. Could’ve been anythin’.” Shindong rolled the scroll and tucked it back in. “We’ll know more once the magicslingers are back.”

Changmin made a noncommittal sound and took a swig from his glass, wished he’d taken out the harder liquor instead. After a considerable pause, he raised his eyes to meet Shindong’s. “You’re not here just to tell me about the company’s disappearance, are you?”

Shindong flashed him a wry smile. “I’m actually on escort duty. Old Man Younghwan’s on his annual pilgrimage and I drew the shortest fucking straw. They should be clearing the forest right about now.” He rounded the table to pat Changmin’s shoulder. “I went ahead because I thought you’d want to know about Siwon.”

“Yeah, that’s— thanks, hyung. I appreciate it. And if you can keep me updated—”

“I will. Hopefully they’ll turn up soon, yeah?”

Optimism wasn’t Changmin’s forte and he doubted any external force that had taken the trouble to abduct an entire company of the Empire’s knights would simply let them go unharmed, but he nodded anyway. He’s spared from having to dwell on the unpleasant fate that might have befallen his friend by the muffled sound of commotion outside. Changmin was already throwing open the doors when Minho skidded to a stop in front him, wide-eyed and looking more than just a bit starstruck. 

Changmin sighed. Behind him, Shindong had started chuckling. “Let me guess, the general’s here?”

Minho straightened, pushed back a mop of sweaty hair from his forehead and eagerly nodded.

Changmin headed towards the gates to join Kibum and Jinki, who must have arrived when he was talking to Shindong. The younger officers made way for him to greet their guest, for once quiet and respectful. Cho Younghwan was one of the more easy-going generals that came out of the capital, compared to some whose political ambition eclipsed their contribution during the war. He looked like an old artist, his forked grey beard arriving at two points just above a fussily-folded cravat and he’s always chewing on his bone pipe, even when it’s unlit. They drifted into a conversation during a knighting ceremony in the capital three years ago, borne out of mutual boredom of pomp and celebration, and Changmin had liked the old man’s dry humour, more so his rapier wit. Younghwan must’ve remembered him fondly as well, as he waved aside Changmin’s salute with a wide smile.

“Been a long time, captain. I thought we’d be seeing each other more, but you seem much happier staying away from the heartcity.” The general pulled out the pipe from where it was clamped between his teeth, tapping the bell-shaped end against his right leg. He gave the fort a sweeping look and whistled. “Not that I blame you for preferring this. King of your own castle, eh? I hope you don’t mind my intrusion then?”

Changmin returned Younghwan’s smile, shaking his head ruefully. Once small talks were dispensed of, Changmin sent for rooms to be prepared and for the the general’s horse to be stabled. He was happy enough to go on a tour of his own, declining both Shindong and Changmin’s offers to walk him through the area.

“I grew up around here,” Younghwan said, a large grin cracking across his withered face. “You go back to your duties and let this old man have his fun, alright? I promise I won’t get into trouble under your care.”

And he ambled off, whistling a jaunty tune around the ever-present pipe and nodding at the group of bewildered recruits who stumbled across him. Shindong and Changmin exchanged a look, before they decided that it was better to not argue with someone above their pay grade. Changmin managed to rope Shindong into a game of chess, taking his king three times before Shindong refused to set the board again. They moved to some light sparring; it’s been a while since Changmin went against someone who wasn’t Minho and Jinki (or even Kibum, in one of his better days) and it was a refreshing change. Despite Shindong’s bulk, he was quick on his feet and fought dirty. Changmin was sweaty and breathless by the time they heard the clanging of the mess hall’s bell, calling them to dinner. He told Shindong to go ahead and that he would find their wayward general, who couldn’t have gone far considering his horse was being groomed by a very nervous recruit. It’s easy to see why — the creature was larger than the rest of the horses in the stable and he kept snorting impatiently while his shiny black coat was being brushed, as if he’s unimpressed by the service and was seconds away from kicking the recruit off of him.

“Be gentler,” Changmin offered, as he walked past. The recruit blinked at him, looked like he’s about to piss his pants. “With your hands. Maybe sing to him to get him to calm down. Who knows, you might only lose a few teeth if you’re lucky.”

He’s rounding the stable, grinning at the faint, wobbly notes of a local drinking song that was soon followed by impatient nickering and the sound of someone getting a hoof in the stomach, when he finally found Younghwan. The general was standing much too close to the low stone ledge that separated him from a vertical drop of several hundred feet, with sharp rocks waiting at the bottom. Even more worrying was that there’s a stranger next to the general, towering over the general’s slighter stature in a way that made his stomach lurch. Where did the man come from? The guards were supposed to inform him of everyone who walked through the gates and he didn’t like thinking that someone had sneaked past them. Changmin’s presence didn’t go unnoticed for long and it was Younghwan who greeted him first. Perhaps sensing Changmin’s unease, he wheeled around and stepped away from the edge.

“This is Kim Dongha, my oldest comrade. Led us to many victories, he did, even some you wouldn’t find in the history books.” The general’s laughter was carefree, but his guest did nothing more than to lift a corner of his mouth into a poor semblance of a smile, which made him look even more unfriendly. Younghwan sighed and nudged the man with his pipe. “Do lighten up, Dongha. You’re making a terrible impression on the kid.”

While Changmin had liked General Younghwan easily, he couldn’t say the same about the general’s friend. From the thick muscles of his scarred, bare arms, to the sharp glint in his eyes, everything about Dongha reeked of someone who felt more at ease in the middle of a war than he was in the cradle of peace. Changmin’s eyes flickered to the spear he carried — it was a beautiful thing, hand-carved instead of the usual mass-produced steel. It was also, unequivocally, a deadlier weapon than anything else Changmin had ever seen.

Dongha scowled. “Forgive me, captain, but I don’t have time for niceties.” He turned to the general, effectively cutting Changmin out of the conversation. It was a dismissal of sorts and it rankled — Changmin wasn’t in the habit of being disrespected by retired has-beens. “We need to talk, Younghwan. Urgently.” 

The general exhaled loudly. “_Fine_.” He didn’t look at all happy when he turned to Changmin to ask, “Is there a room I can borrow for a private discussion with my very impatient friend here?”

Changmin had practice in keeping his face straight for such occasions and that was exactly what he did. Nodding at the general, he led them to his own room on the second floor of the officer’s quarters. Younghwan thanked him, but Dongha said nothing as he closed the doors in Changmin’s face. He stood there for a few seconds, watching the light showing under the doors before he made up his mind. It wasn’t something he did often, but his curiosity called for things to be explained. He went to the guardhouse and lifted the key he knew would open the small library tucked away on the first floor of the quarters. He didn’t worry about bumping into anyone — everyone else should still be in the mess hall for at least another half an hour. Inside the library, the fireplace’s flue ran upwards through his room, opening into a grill above, the only source of warmth during the cold winter nights at Groundhaze. As he’d discovered much earlier, where heat carried upward, the sound of conversation echoed downward. He placed his ear to the opening, just in time to catch the beginning of the conversation.

“—you’re asking me to do the impossible.” The general’s voice carried slightly more than his guest’s. There’s a tapping, the sound of his bone pipe being cleaned against the side of a table. “My hands are tied. I can’t order a search party without some nosey desk monkeys asking questions.”

Dongha grunted, displeased. “You owe me, Younghwan. If it wasn’t for my spear, you wouldn’t make it out of Rosvok in one piece.”

“Must you drag our entire history through the mud to make your point?” A loud exasperated sigh and the scrape of chair legs against the floor. “Time’s changed, my friend. My title is a mere courtesy, since they can’t kill me without the old crowd kicking up a fuss.” There’s more tapping before he’s striking a match, and the smell of burning campari weed floated through the flue. “You shouldn’t have come back. Now is not a good time.”

“—What do you mean?”

“Tch. The Higher Court’s keeping us dogs in the dark, but you know how I am with secrets. They make my nose itch.”

Dongha grunted. “Still up to your old tricks then, Cho Younghwan the All-Knowing?”

“What else am I supposed to do in my spare time, huh?”

“I thought Hanna's trying to get you into gardening?”

“It’s easier to keep tabs on the Death Traders than it is to grow roses.” Younghwan groused. He tapped his pipe again, clearing his throat. When he continued, his voice was lower and Changmin had to strain to catch every word. “Something nasty is coming, I’m sure of it. There are whispers of a resurrection, louder now than ever. My contacts told me about sacrifice pits being dug and filled overnight, with townsfolk. Men. Women. Children. Even their blasted horses were being thrown in. It’s ugly business, this. I’m still collecting information before I go to the Court, but the refugees from the Underwarren—”

There’s a clatter of chair toppling against the floor and it’s such a sudden, jarring noise that Changmin nearly jumped. The general’s raised voice rattled through the flue, “Dongha! What’s the meaning of this?!”

“I wish you had kept to those roses, Younghwan. All the necessary parts are already in motion and I can’t have you, or anyone else, interfering.” Changmin’s blood ran cold when he heard the tell-tale hiss of a blade being drawn. “I’ll make sure there’s enough of your remains left for Hanna to bury. Journey well, old friend.”

“You—!”

Changmin didn’t wait. He rushed out of the library and onto the stairs, taking two at a time. The doors were still closed when he skidded to a stop in front of them, trapping the noises inside. Changmin flung them open, stepping inside with adrenaline and trepidation pumping through his veins. He reared back almost at once, taking in the sight of General Younghwan laying face-down on the floor, his blank eyes staring lifeless across the pooling blood. The old man’s head was nearly severed from his neck and Dongha stood over the body with—

—Changmin’s sword in his hand.

There was still a trace of the general’s blood on the sharpened steel, dripping onto the carpet. The large man slowly turned and Changmin found himself pinned in place by a pair of merciless, steel grey eyes. “You arrived much sooner than expected, captain. Unless—” Dongha tilted his head towards the half-concealed grill and a humourless smile crossed his face, “—you’ve been eavesdropping? A conduct unbecoming of someone in your station, surely.”

Dread manifested into a physical hurt inside his chest, like the arteries snaking into his heart were squeezing shut and he couldn’t breathe through it. “Why—”

He reversed his grip on the sword’s hilt and, with a wet crunch, drove the blade right through Younghwan’s body. It stood straight, like a gravestone made of blood-streaked silver. He unhooked his spear from where it was strapped to his back and smiled grimly at Changmin. “The dead have no need for answers.”

Dongha lunged forward and Changmin leapt to the side, hand going to his waist only to realise he wasn’t carrying any weapon. The older man pulled back for another swing and the arcing thrust barely missed Changmin, shattering the window over his head instead. Shards of glass rained upon him, some larger ones slicing through skin, but he gave them no mind, focusing on heading for the stairs to escape. He could hear Dongha coming after him and that only spurred him to go faster, weaving his way through the small path that cut through the walls of the fortress. He didn’t dare look back at his pursuer for fear of losing what little lead he had and kept to the darker areas until he arrived at the fence separating the back garden from the clearing in the outskirt of the surrounding forest. He vaulted it and dove headlong into the cover of trees, pausing for a few seconds to catch his breathe.

His heart was racing and his mouth was dry, but he fought to keep a tight rein on the panic that threatened to spill into his veins. General Younghwan was dead. _Murdered_, by his own friend. Changmin had known his share of turncoats before, but none to this cruel extent. His fingers curled into fists and he struck the tree he’s leaning against once he remembered that it was his sword that killed the general. He was supposed to take the fall for it, Dongha would make sure of that. There’s no use for him to go back to the fortress, not even to chance his luck at being detained alive. There’s nothing easier than to arrange an ‘accident’ while being transported to the capital for a hearing. He’d be sitting duck. Changmin closed his eyes, considering his choices. No doubt there’s a larger force at play here, if Younghwan’s words before he was struck down held any weight. Changmin swallowed, trying to remember everything that was said. Something about a resurrection and sacrifice pits. He frowned. Isn’t that the same kind of pit in the town where Siwon’s company had disappeared? What was the connection between Dongha and the Resurrectionists? And why did looking into the sacrifice pits signed the general’s death warrant?

Changmin sighed. There were too many questions and he wouldn’t be getting any answer if he stayed in the forest. He glanced over his shoulder to where he could still see parts of Groundhaze silhouetted against the dark sky, the shadow-swathed crags of Grey Mountains hiding the rest of the fort.

He could only hope that his adjutants weren’t foolish enough to question the lies they would be fed soon.

Once he’d decided that there’s no use for him to go back to Groundhaze, Changmin started plotting his route to the capital. It’s the only place he knew that could possibly provide some sort of an explanation as to why a former member of the Knight’s Order was trying to pin the murder of a general on him. It would’ve sounded far-fetched if he wasn’t the one living through this nightmare, but the image of Younghwan’s nearly-decapitated body was still fresh in his head and that gave him enough motivation to keep going through the forest. He couldn’t tell if a search party was coming after him and if they did rouse one after his escape, he had very little time to waste. The river would be the fastest way for him to reach the neighbouring town and from then, it’s just a matter of skirting around the larger settlements until he was sure they hadn’t put out a paper on him. He followed the flickering lights of the jetty until he could see rows of narrowboats tied up along the protruding wooden structure. Fortunately, nobody was there to see him break into one of the boats. He eased around the first bend of the river, keeping his head down as he worked the tiller. If anyone just so happened to catch sight of him, he would look just like another midnight trawler, chancing his luck when everyone else kept warm and cosy in their own homes.

It took Changmin five days in the narrowboat and three days on a stolen horse to reach the fringe of the Empire’s largest city. Being raised as a workhouse boy in one of the worst orphanages in the capital came with perks, one of them being that he knew places in the underbelly of the city that could only be described as stinking misery pits, places where nobody cared who he was and where he came from. Most of the boys were forced to become sewer-scrapers or pushed into positions in dimly-lit workshops and mill houses, hunching over cutting engines to earn coins for the orphanage. The women who took care of them didn’t care that their wards were being splashed by semi-liquid metal and losing a finger a year; the war provided them with more orphans than they could handle and child labour was constantly in high demand by the more unsavoury establishments. Changmin was lucky he survived long enough to be conscripted, although considering his current situation, his luck might have finally run out.

The sprawling old rookeries offered unattended laundry lines, where he found civilian clothes that fitted and a thick, dark-brown cloak that had seen better days. He shoved his bloodstained uniform into one of the larger sewage vents dotting the slums and headed for The Toadstool. It’s a cramped little tavern with a ceiling as low as a coffin’s, and the air was thick and foul. It had been constructed with little care for aesthetics, or even a passing respect for structural integrity, and its current owner seemed to have carried the same irreverent attitude. Changmin knew the place from when he spent a few months as a vent-sweeper and everything still looked the same, right down to the rust-coloured water leaking in slow, rhythmic gushes from between the riveted metal panels covering the wall. It gave the impression that the tavern was constantly bleeding from a fatal wound.

Changmin found a place at the bar and ordered something for him to nurse as he tried to figure out where to go from there. He didn’t get far before he was acutely aware that he was being watched by a group of men at the pool table. They sauntered towards him, spreading out in a loose pack of four, and Changmin continued drinking, letting them come. Once they were close enough, he unfolded himself from the stool and his shadow travelled up the length of the floor like an oil spill. The four meatheads tensed a little, perhaps reconsidering their decision to corner him just by themselves. Unfortunately, the indecision lasted only for seconds. Changmin tipped his head to the bartender and headed outside, rolling his shoulders to loosen them up. If he had to fight, he wasn’t about to pull anything. Wouldn’t be worth it. They made a loose circle around him, and Changmin didn’t bother turning to face the one who’s moving behind him. There’s no way he could turn that wouldn’t put one of them at his back. There’s movement in his peripheral, the slightest sound of gravel shifting, and the guy who was facing Changmin, the ringleader, telegraphed it by the flick of his eyes.

Changmin held up his hands in a placatory gesture, saying, “I don’t want any trouble.” And before the words were even settled in the air, he swung around and slammed his fist into the face of the guy behind him. The impact jarred the bones of his wrist, still tender from where he’d twisted it when escaping the fort, and pain exploded hotly under his skin.

They’re on him in seconds.

One of the guys threw a punch at him. Before the blow connected, he grabbed the guy’s wrist, jerked and neatly broke the bone. Then he drove his elbow back, smooth and hard, and slammed it in the face of the guy coming at him on the other side. The last guy didn’t even have a chance to back off before Changmin gripped his head and pulled it down to meet his knee. It’s a quick dance and he liked being efficient when it came to concentrated brutality, instead of drawing things out. It afforded no time for retaliation or regrouping. Changmin wasn’t even breathing hard when he’s done, didn’t even need to draw his weapon. Three of his assailants staggered to their feet, the fourth still writhing on the ground clutching his face, but there’s newfound fear in their eyes when they looked at him.

Changmin’s considering interrogating one of them when a heavy blow caught him in the back of his head. His vision went watery, legs wobbling beneath him as everything inside his head throbbed. For a second, he wavered there, on his knees in the dirt. And then he’s falling forward.

Into darkness.

Changmin didn’t know how long he’d been knocked out, but when he opened his eyes, his first instinct was to keep very, very still. His cheek was pressed to wooden floorboards and he followed the cracks deep in the groves, coming together like parched river tributaries. One of the guys strode past and a minor earthquake travelled through the floor and vibrated in Changmin’s ear. He’s feeling hot pulses of pain, enough to know that the beating didn’t stop just because he lost consciousness. His ankles were tied too and he rubbed his wrist against the rope, to see how much give there was, and pain flared and fell like the wail of a raid siren. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing through his mouth to ease some of it off. The tightness of the knots made his hands feel hot and bloated, and he thought about how he’d be losing circulation in a few more hours. He’s pretty sure he could pop a thumb out of its socket, work a hand free.

It’d hurt like a bitch, but it beat being handed over to an almost-certain death.

“The sun’s settin’,” grumbled one of his captors. “You said your contact’s gonna pull through, ey?”

“Relax,” said the other guy. The way his tongue rolled some of the consonants reminded Changmin of traders from across the sea. There’s a scrape of chair legs, the thump of boots making the floor ripple again. “We’ve got time. Made sure nobody called the lawmen, didn’t I? We’re in the clear s’long as we sit pretty and not make too much noise.”

“You sure?” The first one moved towards the window, boots disappearing right off the edge of Changmin’s circle of vision. He’s jittery, Changmin could tell from all that restless movement. “This here don’t sound like a normal bounty. Where’s the paper, ey? Why don’t we get to march him straight to the lawmen and collect our coins?”

Changmin would like to know the answer to those questions too. Learning that these guys were bounty hunters put everything into a different perspective — the military had their own hunters, ruthless human-shaped bloodhounds that, if the rumours were true, could’ve tracked down a man even through the barren wasteland of Gartoll. For his contract to have trickled down the usual line so quickly, someone was quite eager to get their hands on his head. And he wouldn’t want to be here when they came to collect. He gritted his teeth and popped the thumb, regulating his breath around the throbbing pain so they wouldn’t find out what he was doing. He managed to free a hand and it was minutes before he’d completely slipped out of his binds.

There were only the two near the window and the element of surprise was enough for him to knock the first one out with a chair, the second whirling away in surprise. He drew a curved knife on Changmin, who side-stepped the clumsy attack and seized the guy’s wrist. He rotated the arm so he had to fall to his knees and kicked the knife out of his other hand. The guy screamed as his arm stretched close to breaking point and only stopped when Changmin smashed his face with the sole of his boot, breaking his nose and driving the bone right back into his head. He watched the guy slump onto the floor, unmoving. He knew that he had to get out of there before the rest of their little pack came back. Or worse, if someone heard the scuffle and called the lawmen on them.

He’s quick in the bathroom, hunched over the stained, yellowing basin, letting the water run and cupping handfuls of it to splash over his face. The water dribbled down his neck, soaked the collar of his shirt, but it took away the dirt and grime that had filmed over his skin. When he straightened, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and grimaced. The large cut on his temple, the one from the bounty hunters, had scabbed over and Changmin resisted the urge to pick on it. Dried blood streaked across his cheeks, almost black in the poor light, and he scrubbed at the worst of them. Being presentable was the least of his worries right now, but he didn’t want to draw attention to his current state lest it brought about more trouble. He exited the bathroom and made his way to the bodies, hoping that they had at least some money on them.

“Captain?”

Changmin’s not quite turned around before someone’s got a hold of him and slammed a knife into his stomach with a dull, muffled thud. Didn’t even hear it coming and that didn’t happen to Changmin often, not even when he was a recruit. Pain exploded in his belly, radiating outward in jagged waves from the point where his skin parted around the sharp edge of the knife. He fought, just for a second, before the knife was forced in deeper. Another wrenching twist of wrist and Changmin’s struggling became squirming, and each gasp of breath he sucked in juddered through his bones. His blood was leaking over his shirt, slippery and warm and the knife was so deep in his flesh that it felt as if it had gone right through. One arm gripped his shoulder to hold him in place, as the other kept the knife buried in him.

“Thought you’d have more fight in you.” The voice sounded sibilant, gleeful. Changmin’s breathing was broken and shallow, and he could barely keep his eyes open. He scratched at the hand gripping the knife with what little strength he had left and it moved a fraction deeper. “Pity.”

The sound of the blade’s withdrawal was slick and heady, and Changmin crumpled to the floor once the hands that were holding him up disappeared. A masked face looked down on him, bone-white except for the red painted mouth, and it lowered itself to crouch over Changmin. Fingers dipped, knuckle-deep, into the wound. “You shouldn’t have run.” Changmin jerked when the fingers crooked, stirring around the slippery wetness. This close, he could feel the cold radiating from the masked figure and knew for certain that whatever was underneath that coal-black cloak, it wasn’t human. It pulled its fingers out with a squelching sound and wiped them against Changmin’s cheek. “It would’ve been a quicker death— than this.”

Changmin ground his teeth, tried to anchor himself to the pain so he wouldn’t pass out, even as the rest of the world was already starting to fall away in a blur of muted colours. “W-Who are you?”

An amused sound, almost a laughter. Only that it sounded like the grinding of bones. “Lucid still, captain? What extraordinary spirit.”

It gripped the front of Changmin’s shirt and he was raised in the air, the tips of his boots barely scraping the floor. It took his entire strength to keep his head upright, so he could see that he was brought to a grime-stained window, barely able to see outside. It didn’t matter anyway because the next second, he’d been tossed right through the shattering of glass and windowpane. Like a discarded chunk of flesh. He’s free-falling and there’s nothing to catch himself on. He didn’t have the energy even if he wanted to, as the breath rushed out of him and his body braced for impact. The speed at which he’s streaking through air felt like it would tear his heart right out of his chest and he closed his eyes, surrendering to the pull of unconsciousness that would at least spare him the indignity of being reduced to ground meat.

Changmin soon found that oblivion was kind to him. Or maybe he’s already dead, it’s hard to tell. He was floating at the bottom of a sea. Sometimes, he would rise towards the surface and the press of the depths would ease. He would be close enough to the light to hear the voices — singing, strange melodies, inhuman but beautiful. Not words though, not any language he recognised. Then he would sink again into a hall of liquid darkness. It was peaceful, timeless, until a vague human-shape appeared at the end of the hall. Gilded by faint, white light, the human-shape drew closer and held out a hand towards him. Even if a large part of him was loath to be ripped from the relative comfort of the dark, Changmin found that he didn’t have any choice. The very moment he touched the proffered hand, it felt as if he was jerked back into reality, breath slamming into him like a punch to the solar plexus. He sputtered and snapped his eyes open, blinking through the haze of disorientation that took several seconds to recede. 

“_Shit_.” He could feel his entire face scrunching into a grimace. Only when he’d opened his eyes fully that he realised he’s lying on someone’s lap. “What happened?”

“You looked like you needed help.” The face hovering over him broke into a grin, dark eyes crinkling. “So I helped.”

“I was thrown out of a window—” Changmin stopped. That couldn’t have been right. The drop was high enough that he would’ve broken more than just a few measly bones in his body upon reaching the ground. Even the best healers in the capital would’ve taken an extensive amount of time to put him right. The front of his shirt was sticky with blood when Changmin patted it, still damp, but he felt none of the pain that came from the stab wound. Or the fall. He pushed himself up on his elbows, struggled to get upright. A hand on his back helped and he’s acutely aware of how warm the stranger was, heat crawling over his skin despite the thick fabric of his shirt. “Who are you?”

That earned him a pause. The stranger’s slanted, cat-like eyes flickered away, as if contemplating a lie. Eventually, he said, “Yunho. You can call me Yunho.”

Before Changmin could say anything, there came the sound of shrill screaming from the room he’d unwilling vacated, right above their heads.

.

**tbc**

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**Author's Note:**

> you can reach me at [twitter](https://twitter.com/ahjusshis) & [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/ahjusshis)!


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